Nora recovers before I do, and off-screen, waves a staying hand in my direction. I don’t dare move, afraid that if I try to stand, I’ll fall over in shock once more.

  “Autumn is amazing. She’s been vital to my last two releases,” Nora says easily. Talking about herself, she’s nearly puking on my shoes. Talking about me? No biggie, I guess.

  “Yes, well . . . Ms. Fisher entered a contest with House Corbin. The Fashionable Females Under 25?”

  She doesn’t pause, though my heart completely stops in my chest, remembering how Nora encouraged me to complete an application as my first post-graduation project. It had been a way for Nora to familiarize herself with my work style and methods to see where we could best work together. The application itself had been the culmination of that work, mostly the cherry on top of a pipe dream.

  Jacqueline’s still talking. “I’d like to invite Autumn to Paris, to House Corbin, for a month-long contest of sorts with the other finalists. It will be all-expenses paid, of course, including flights, lodging, and materials. Some of the other young ladies are not currently associated with designers, but seeing as Ms. Fisher is on your roster, I felt it only proper to notify you first.”

  I’m shaking. I’ve managed to sit up, at least, but I’m still on the linoleum floor and there are interns looking through the glass on the side of the room in concern. I flash them a shaky smile so they don’t barge in to rescue me from myself.

  Nora smiles, well aware of my shock. “Of course. I’ll be sad to lose Autumn for a month . . . or more” —she tacks on with a wink— “but I know she’ll be head over heels at this opportunity.”

  Is she seriously making fun of me at a time like this? I’m going to kill her. After I kiss her for making me apply in the first place.

  “In fact, Jacqueline, Autumn is here, taking notes for me. May I ask her to join us?” Nora inquires politely.

  I flail about, trying to get up and get my dress smoothed down my legs—not that Jacqueline will see that far down—and slip my hair behind my ear. I take a steadying breath and step around the table next to Nora, waving stupidly at Jacqueline Corbin, the CEO, head designer, and model of House Corbin. She began as a one-woman show and is a long-time force to be reckoned with.

  And I just waved at her like I’m Forrest Gump about to talk to her about shrimp.

  If I could smack myself in the forehead, I would.

  Jacqueline Corbin is thin, her face angular and interesting. Her trademark hair is pitch black, cut through with a single streak of silver. From what I can see, she’s wearing a black, high-neck blouse with a tiny, delicate ruffle along the collar. It’s the only nod to femininity or softness in her entire look.

  “Hello, Madame Corbin. I’m shocked . . . and elated at the opportunity. Thank you,” I say, vowing that I will tell Mom how much I appreciate her teaching me manners, even if I didn’t use them earlier, because they’re thankfully not failing me now.

  “Ah, yes, dear. Then you accept?” Jacqueline says. She’s looking down at a piece of paper on her desk, and I realize that, for me, this is a life-defining moment, but for her, this is a mere formality. One call of several. It’s a bit disappointing, as I want to jump around and celebrate and squeal all at once.

  Nora pinches my thigh under the table, out of sight, and I jerk my eyes to her. She’s smiling from ear to ear, happy for me. I let my eyes jump to the windows where the concerned interns were a moment ago to find them all wide-eyed with excitement for me too. I realize that I will be able to celebrate the way I’d like to with my family here at work.

  I swallow and primly tell Jacqueline, “Of course. I would be honored to participate.”

  “Excellent. I will have Albert send over the details today, and we will see you soon, dear.” Jacqueline glances up, but not to the screen, and nods. It must’ve been an order to her assistant because the screen goes blank.

  Three, two, one . . .

  “Oh! My! God! Autumn!” Nora screams. She jumps up, pulling me to my feet to jump with her. I can’t help but be infected with her excitement, and it replaces the shock, slowly changing my thoughts from ‘what the hell?’ to ‘I’m going to Paris!’

  “I’m going to Paris!” I shout, letting the idea loose to the universe, daring it to disagree. But it doesn’t . . . because it’s real!

  The interns rush us, squealing in joy. “So happy for you,” several people say.

  “I knew it,” someone else says confidently.

  “I get her chair!”

  “Not IT on coffee duty!”

  Okay, so some people are more pragmatic, but I can’t blame them. I know how cutthroat fashion is. I’ve worked my way to my position too, and my being gone for a month means the fight will be on to fill my shoes.

  “Nora! I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can. And I’ll make sure Clay is caught up on everything before I leave,” I rush to tell her, knowing that the interns can handle the professional stuff. But Clay, as Nora’s personal assistant, will need some calendar information too. I work hand-in-hand with him most days to keep Nora on track and able to focus on the creative aspects of her work.

  “No, you won’t. You’re going to get out of here. Go home, pack, prepare.” She pauses, looking at the crowd around us. “And when you get back, you’ll step right back into being my right hand. Unless you win the whole damn thing and go off on your own. Then I’ll stand back like a proud mama and clap louder than anyone else for you.”

  I really hit the jackpot with Nora. She’s the best mentor anyone could ever wish for.

  My head spins, the room whirling wildly, but it’s because everyone is hugging me and then passing me on to the next person for a hug. “Is this real?”

  “Oh, it’s real, alright,” Nora says. “Go show those Frenchie-Frenches what us NYC bitches can do. It’s about damn time.” She claps as she says it, and I can’t help but grin.

  I, Autumn Fisher, a NYC designer from small-town Massachusetts, am going to Paris, France to design for House Corbin.

  It’s a bigger dream than I could’ve ever dreamed. And it’s coming true.

  CHAPTER 2

  AUTUMN

  “Mom, listen. It’s going to be fine,” I repeat for the dozenth time.

  “Honey, it’s so far!” Mom frets. “New York was far enough, and I worry so much. At least you have Nora there, but France is on the other side of the world! And you don’t know anyone there. You don’t even speak French! How are you going to make do or expect to win?”

  She’s a bit hysterical but hitting all my worry points too. Like the fact that I don’t speak French, though a quick Google search told me that a few phrases in French go a long way in creating some goodwill with locals, who might then be willing to speak English if they’re able. I’ve already downloaded an app to start learning and another to do translations.

  “I’m gonna be fine. This is an amazing opportunity for me,” I tell her, wishing she could understand what this means to me. She’s supportive, or she wants to be, but sometimes her fears come through in ways that sting and hurt. My dreams are so much more than hers ever were, and she has a difficult time relating.

  I want to be more than just another Masshole. I want more than a nice, boring husband, two-point-five nice, boring kids, a nice, boring, hypoallergenic dog, and a job at the local theater doing costume design, which was Mom’s grand suggestion to fulfill my designing dreams after I shot down being a specialty bridal tailor. That’s her dream for me—a combination of her hopes and my fashion interest. But that would never be enough for me.

  I’ve never said it quite so succinctly because I know it would hurt her feelings. It’s all she wanted and all she got, after all. A happy marriage with my dad . . . me . . . right down to our Goldendoodle, Graham Cracker. With my dad’s death and my moving off to New York, I know Mom’s lonely now. She’s got Graham to snuggle with, but it’s not the same.

  I have second thoughts . . . about everything. Maybe I should take a trip home to check on Mom, see how she’s doing? We could eat lobster rolls, and I could visit some of my high school friends because fuck knows, they’re all still there.

  I’m one of a handful of kids from my high school class who escaped the black hole of small-town New England life. Did anyone there think I would make it in New York at FIT? Probably not. They likely thought, like Mom, that I’d go to school and putz around with my ‘dress thing’ and then meet someone who’d give me a M-R-S hookup, and that would be that.

  “Mom, are you okay? Do you need me to come home?” I ask hesitantly. There’s a deep, dark pit in my belly praying she says no, but if she truly needs me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Even give up this once in a lifetime opportunity, though the very idea pains me.

  I want to see the world, learn everything I can, and experience things beyond the two-lane road I learned to drive on. And I’ve thrived in New York City doing just that, and I have no doubt that I will do the same in Paris. I won’t quit until that’s the case, willing to put in whatever work it takes to win this competition.

  Mom sighs heavily. “No. I’m fine. Work’s stressing me out, but busy is better than no business. I just worry, honey.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment. She knows I need her permission to go. Not because she controls me or anything like that—I’m an adult and do what I please—but because I’d like her blessing to chase this dream as far as I can go. I want her at my back, cheering me on because she’s the best damn cheerleader there is, even better than Nora.

  She’s my mom.

  “Okay, fine. Go to Paris then.” She makes it sound like I’m going to Guantanamo Bay or the frozen tundra of Antarctica. “Send pictures, though—of the Eiffel Tower, that museum with the pyramid outside, and that big arch thing.”

  I laugh to myself, knowing that she’s well aware of the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. “I will, Mom. Thanks.”

  “I love you, Autumn.” She sounds choked up as she adds, “I am so damn proud of you.”

  I needed to hear that more than I realized. “Love you too, Mom.”

  Blessing given, we spend a few minutes talking about life in my hometown. The Apple-Sauce-ing committee is gearing up for this year’s festival, and word is, they’re adding an apple butter contest, so Mom’s working on a new recipe. “I don’t care who wins, as long as it’s not that old biddy Patricia Wilkins.”

  “Mom, you and Patty used to be friends,” I remind her.

  “Not anymore. Did I tell you what she did to my perennials? She walked her dog by the flower beds, stopped so he could do his business, and sprinkled fertilizer right on them, pretty as you please. Took two days of good weather before I had sun burns on my flowers. So I don’t care who wins the apple butter competition, as long as it’s not her.”

  Mom sounds put out, but her level of anger is about on par with ninety percent of the riders on the subway each day . . . annoyed, but not homicidal. Hell, I was probably more exasperated this morning at being blockaded by that guy on the phone.

  “Well, I’m sure if you work on your recipe, she won’t win,” I reassure Mom. “I have lots of packing and prep work to do, so I should probably go.”

  We say our goodbyes, with my promise of a text from the airport in New York, the airport in Paris, the hotel in Paris, and when I figure out my schedule. It’s the least I can do so she doesn’t worry about my flying over the Atlantic, apparently.

  “Oh, my God, what was that?”

  I jerk awake with a start before realizing it’s the same woman who’s been disrupting the entire flight for the last few hours. She warned everyone in a three-row radius that she has severe flight anxiety, and I completely understand that. However, every time she shouts, my heart jumps into my throat and I have to fight back the anxiety along with her.

  Thankfully, the slight turbulence has already settled.

  The nervous woman doesn’t seem to be affecting my seatmate. Before we even began taxiing down the runway, he reached across me to shut the window shade, pulled a mask over his eyes, and began snoring. And now, he’s so deep in slumber that his head has fallen back, his mouth is hanging open, and his turkey neck is vibrating with every grumbly snort.

  I yawn, stretching out my legs as best I can, but my feet are definitely tingly and asleep. “Mmm,” I groan, searching for relief and accidently disturbing the snoring man. He makes a sound as though he’s choking on a chicken bone and then starts snoring again, louder this time. Actually . . . that’s not all snores. I think he just farted. I glare at him as though he’ll feel it in his sleep. Seriously?

  If he just launched a deadly dose of methane inside a metal tube with recirculated air, I’m going to suffocate because I can’t escape to the onboard bathroom with my feet still asleep. I roll my ankles with more intention, because now that I’ve thought about it, I really could use a trip to the restroom. A glance at Turkey Neck has me doing some mental gymnastics about how I might get around him and out into the aisle, but I come up short of any reasonable possibility.

  I’m ready for this flight to be over. As bad as it’s going, I mostly want it to be over so that I’m there . . . in Paris! That’s the thought that’s been playing in my mind, over and over, with every mile.

  I’m going to design in Paris with House Corbin.

  It’s utter madness, and excitement shoots through me, fresh once more.

  Hours, and a few more farts later, we’re on final approach to Charles De Gaulle airport and touch down. The jolt wakes Turkey Neck and makes Nervous Nellie cry out as she clutches the armrests. I offer her a gentle reassurance. “Back on solid ground.”

  She smiles gratefully but is still taking some deep breaths and whispering a mantra I haven’t quite figured out to calm herself.

  When we arrive at the gate, the seatbelt sign dings and I unbuckle. I can’t believe I’m here. It doesn’t feel real until the immigration officer looks at my passport and nods, stamping the page and handing it back to me.

  “Enjoy France,” he says, and for the first time, I officially step onto French soil. Well, French airport carpet, at least.

  I knew as I prepped to fly that Charles De Gaulle airport is one of the busiest in the world. But I never expected it to be this chaotic. The international arrivals hallways are crowded, with what sounds like every language in the world bouncing off the walls. The New York City sidewalks have nothing on these people, who are not only dodging and weaving through one another, but doing it with rolling suitcases behind them that create an obstacle course worthy of Survivor.

  Finally, I see a driver, a small, balding, pot-bellied man, holding up a sign with my name on it. I walk up to him and wave, pointing at myself and the sign.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Je suis votre chauffeur, pouvez-vous me suivre jusqu'à la voiture?” he says, and I stammer.

  I reach for my phone and start tapping as I say the first thing I learned ahead of time. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Autumn.”

  “Bien.” He praises my poor attempt but then switches to English. “Follow me to the automobile.”

  Oh, thank fuck. He speaks English!

  I nod, following him out to a nice-looking white BMW, and minutes later, we’re on the French version of the Interstate on our way into Paris.

  It’s absolutely beautiful. Stunning, in fact. The sun’s just beginning to rise, and as we get closer, Paris reveals herself to me. In the front seat, the driver talks, pointing out the sights in his limited English.

  “Famous French bridge.”

  “Famous French restaurant.”

  “Famous French monument . . . Napoleon.”

  Apparently, his list of adjectives is limited to ‘famous’ and ‘French,’ but I can’t knock him. My French is worse than his English, and I don’t even know half of the nouns he’s saying.

  But it doesn’t matter. Around me, I’m stunned as the City of Lights wakes up, awash in pinks and oranges as the streets begin to fill with people and activity. I’m staring out the window of the car like the tourist I am, gobsmacked by all I see. The architecture! The beauty! It’s just breathtaking, and I can feel the excitement buzzing up my arms like I just took a triple-shot of Claire’s super-strong espresso.

  There’s magic in the air! I can feel it with every cell of my body.

  “Wow,” I breathe.

  The driver leaves me to my own thoughts, focusing as traffic begins to fill in the roadway around us. I listen to him muttering under his breath, and without knowing any French cursewords, I can still figure out when he’s cursing the car in front of or beside us. He swerves left and right, changing lanes with zero cares about anyone else on the road, and I fight to see everything around me all at once as I slide across the leather of the back seat to check the view out every window.

  “We have arrive,” the driver states, obviously thinking hard about his word selection.

  He’s stopped outside a building made of weathered gray stone that looks as though it’s seen lifetimes of stories. I get out, wondering if this is the beginning of my own story. Maybe a mystery? Or a romance? More likely, the tale of a spunky, can-do girl taking France by storm. That’s the book I want to write, and hopefully, read.

  If it has a happy ending.

  The driver helps unload my bags and gestures for me to follow him. He pushes through a black iron gate buried in vinery and reveals a small courtyard. I feel like Alice stepping into Wonderland, absurdly joyful at the tiny details of the texture of the old bricks, the vibrant green leaves, and the narrow wooden staircase the driver is moving toward.

  Up the stairs, he unlocks the first door we come to and then offers me the key. It’s oversized, with a large head and a double-flanged shaft that looks like an ancient skeleton key. It’s heavy in my hand, reminding me that though this is a dream trip, it’s also a big responsibility . . . to myself, to Nora, and even to Mom.

  I open the door, ready to be wowed, only to be shocked in a bad way. “Wow, I thought New York studio apartments were tiny.” I laugh at my own joke, but the driver simply smiles and nods agreeably, not understanding what I’ve said.